by m. head

I just read “Meditations in an Emergency” for the first time in a while (I am forty), and at last I think I understand it!  But why would I have to unlock my heart for you to gawk at it?  It’s been revolving around us like the moon, in fact… all the phases, the moods, and fancies… all the trouble and the glee (the poor man), he was in pain but always unutterably in stride… I know what it’s like to feel hurt—the kick to the stomach by the Kung Fu heart… the days of being unaware—it’s like a nerve being ignorant of the next because its already too drunk on itself… What could the gods possibly want from us but to lie naked under the sun?  Our souls as prostrate as an icon or symbol, our words trembling at the thought of having to constantly undress our spirits… But Frank was a fighter… a pugilistic bard… he messed with the most unforgiving animal—love… And is it trite to say so?  Did you know he knew soul-break like a nice piece of Rachmaninoff?  And do you realize how complex, riveting, and atonal that is?  Oh, all the little people that walk this crazy Earth!  Do they wrestle with similar things?  Do they trip eons of rainbowed keys like Mayakovski?  Not like Frank… he had the poise and courage to face the beast… and for a fantastic while… he’d still be the last one standing…

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